


The Stranger's Gift

by k_n



Series: The Stranger of Nihon [2]
Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5063401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_n/pseuds/k_n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Witch of the Dead grants a dead warrior's wish, but it is not without an awful price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stranger's Gift

            He doesn’t know it, yet, but he’s dead.

            That’s the odd thing death does. It isn’t an exact science. There is no line to cross, no reaper, no bright lights—in one moment, he is in a foreign town where strangers run towards him, and in another moment, he is in a black place, lying on his back, and Kurogane is lost. He calls for Fai, for Syaoran, for Sakura, for Mokona, but no one answers.

            No one, but someone.

            “It has been a while,” a woman says, “Kurogane.”

            “Witch,” he replies automatically. He turns his head, and sees her lounging in a strange chair in the darkness, looking for all in the world like she has been there all along. If she was languid and irritating in life, she will certainly be the same in—oh. Oh.

            Kurogane is dead.

            She laughs, as if having heard the thought. “Yes, yes—I’m afraid that’s the truth of things, Kurogane. We are only ghosts, now.”

            “No,” Kurogane argues. “We’re in—we’re somewhere. Fai. Fai?”

            “Alive,” she says, smiling with her dark lips. A pipe appears in her fingers, smoking, and she sips it with a delighted glint in her eyes. She exhales. “Your companions are alive. The country you speak of is Gedoma, and you were attacked. Death is sudden, Kurogane, but we both know that.”

            “I can’t be dead.”

            “Well, you certainly can,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You are very dead.”

            “But I didn’t do it.”

            “No, you didn’t, and that is no one’s fault but your own,” she replies. “Death does not wait for dramatic confessions.”

            “Hmmph.”

            “In any case,” Yuuko sighs, “you are here because you have a wish.”

            “You’re dead. You don’t do that anymore.”

            Yuuko only smiles.

 

 

            Yuuko has to be the worst witch to have ever lived (or died). Kurogane finds himself in another strange country—the ground is covered in burgundy, short grass; the sky is grey; the clouds are golden; the sun is dimly white. He cannot see a single tree, building, or any landmark at all. When he turns, the landscape is all the same, and he realizes it looks identical in every direction. Of course. Yuuko _would_ put him in a place like this. He stands with a hand on his hip, glowering at the strange land.

            “Right,” Kurogane says. “And where the hell am I _now_?”

            “Your soul,” Yuuko replies, voice booming invisibly from the grey skies. Kurogane almost jumps at the sound (he does, actually—he jumps) and Yuuko laughs at him. “If you want your wish to be granted, this is the place to see to it.”

            “There’s nothing here.”

            “Incorrect. _Everything_ is here,” Yuuko says, and Kurogane wishes all of the women in his life would stop being vague and metaphorical. He pointedly scowls at the sky, but Yuuko is never intimidated by him. “Your memories are in this place. You must select the few that are _vital_.”

            “If I do this,” Kurogane murmurs, “I won’t remember them, myself.”

            “Of course not. That is the point of it,” Yuuko explains. “You are giving a man your heart. It is not the sort of gift one can return.”

            Kurogane smiles dryly.

            “You must find those memories, Kurogane. Choose them wisely and choose them well. What about your life is the most important? What would a stranger need to know in order to understand it?”

            “No idea.”

            “Ah-ah! You have some idea,” Yuuko chuckles.

            “Right. Where am I supposed to _look_?” Kurogane complains, gesturing to the open land. “Nothing’s here. No trees. No houses. Nothing. Are my memories just going to _appear_?”

            “That is precisely what will happen,” Yuuko says, and when Kurogane glances about himself once more, he sees Tomoyo in her holy robes, smiling, floating above the land. Kurogane calls for her, starting towards her, as Yuuko’s voice quiets like a passing thunder. Tomoyo stretches lazily in the grey sky, smiling calmly when the dead man shakes his fist at her.

            “Oi!” Kurogane calls. “Get down from there!”

            Tomoyo floats down just enough to pat Kurogane on the head. She looks mildly surprised, clutching behind his ear with frigid hands, and when she pulls her arms back, she has an enormous black feather in her fingers. Kurogane instinctively knows what it is. He leaps, trying to grab it, but she holds it above his reach, jetting upwards with a childish giggle. “What is this behind your ear?”

            “Give me that!” he demands.

            “Kurogane is so rude,” Tomoyo sighs. “I thought you had better manners than that.”

            Kurogane rolls his eyes. “ _Please_ give me that.”

            “Why?” Tomoyo asks, drawing the feather to her breast. She clutches it like a treasure. “It is mine. You cannot take it from me.”

            Kurogane looks about for Yuuko, hoping she might convince the priestess. Something about Tomoyo does not seem right. She smiles with too many teeth, and she is paler than she should be—nothing like the youthful priestess Kurogane knows from memory. Oh. Right. He blinks. “You’re a memory.”

            “You cannot take me from my home,” Tomoyo scolds him. “You brought me here, and I am happy, here.”

            “You’re just…going to a different town,” Kurogane decides. “It’s the same country. Just a different town.”

            “Mm-mm.” She shakes her head.

            “Please?”

            “No thank you.” Tomoyo turns away, rolling so that her floating back faces him. Kurogane clears his throat. “No, no thank you. I am very happy, here.”

            “Which memory are you?”

            “You’re going to send me away,” Tomoyo says, sounding like a begrudging child. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Go away, now.”

            Kurogane wonders if all of his memories will behave this way. He hopes not. Tomoyo sings softly to herself, and the word she sings make Kurogane take pause, shutting his mouth. Above him, the priestess sings, “Bos-tord, bos-tord, bos-tord…”

            “You have to come with me,” Kurogane demands.

            She shakes her head and continues singing that awful word.

            “You are mine,” Kurogane presses. “I command you to come with me.”

            Tomoyo stops singing. She stops doing anything at all. She breaks, shattering into a flurry of feathers, and Kurogane grabs them in his hand like a beggar catching falling coins. When he holds the black feathers in his fingers, he knows exactly what memory she is.

            “Bos-tord,” Kurogane sighs.

 

            Fai is with him in Yama, speaking desperately in a foreign tongue because he is drunk and the day’s battles were fought, and Kurogane pantomimes silence by “zipping” his mouth. When it doesn’t work, he screams at the yellow-haired man, which works for about thirty minutes. When that passes, Fai speaks again, and Kurogane storms out of the tent, but he finds it difficult to make a dramatic statement when he cannot slam a door. In light of that, he sulks outside the tent, thinking of a man’s eyes turned black that were once blue, and he thinks that Fai is an irritatingly sad excuse for a man. He would not defend himself in battle, that day, because he would not use that magic of his.

            Kurogane knows there is a good reason for that, and it is not the reason Fai gave in past. He _hears_ Fai lying, even now, even in a language he doesn’t understand, because Kurogane is not a fool. He knows what truth sounds like, and it does not sound like Fai’s voice.

            Fai joins him outside, saying something of a teasing nature (Kurogane can read tone, though he doesn’t know the words) before he retreats into the tent once more, patting Kurogane on the head like a child.

            “Bastard,” Kurogane hisses.

            “Bos-tord,” Fai echoes, mangling the word with his accent.

            “You’re also a bos-tord,” Kurogane decides in the dark, and Fai laughs, and when Kurogane finally joins him to sleep, Fai sings “bos-tord” like a horrible lullaby. If Kurogane was the laughing sort, that would have made him laugh. He isn’t so he doesn’t. He sulks, but he does fall asleep to a foreign dolt singing “bos-tord”, though he’ll never tell a soul of it.

 

            The feathers are gone, and Kurogane does not remember why he said “bos-tord” or what it means. There is a strange pain in his chest, as if he has lost something he treasured, but he does not know what that something is. He looks at the sky. Yuuko murmurs, “That is the memory you chose?”

            “I don’t know. I guess so.”

            “Very well,” Yuuko sighs. “Go on.”

            “How is my soul a country?” Kurogane asks, and he starts to walk. He sees purple smoke rolling between the golden clouds—hints of the gentle yet terrible witch. “Why didn’t we go to a place like this before?”

            “I am the Witch of the Dead,” Yuuko says patiently, “and I deal with the dead. One cannot travel a soul if they have a body. You all had bodies. The rest of them still do. You, however, do not.”

            “Why?”

            “What are you questioning?” she wonders.

            “Why am I dead?”

            “Kurogane,” Yuuko laughs, “you were there when it happened. Do you not recall?”

            “I was there, and then I wasn’t there. I don’t remember how it happened.” Yuuko does not answer this, which unnerves Kurogane. “What happened to me, witch?”

            “I think it’s obvious…”

            “Well, the end result is,” Kurogane snarls, “but I don’t know _why_ it happened, how it happened—any of that.”

            “If you behave yourself, you might learn,” Yuuko says. “Oh—look, there! A friend has come to see you. Good luck, Kurogane.”

            When Kurogane looks ahead, he sees a tall, pale woman with shiny, black hair and blood all over her delicate robes. Kurogane’s breath catches in his throat, and she smiles when she sees him. “Mother.”

            She nods. Like Tomoyo, his mother floats above the burgundy grass, dripping blood in a thick rain. Unlike Tomoyo, his mother drifts as close to the ground as possible, and she extends her gentle hand towards him. She has only one eye—the other is scarred closed. Kurogane grabs her fingers, and her hand is cold, but he is overwhelmed at the sight of her.

            “You—you look…” Kurogane almost says ‘you look well’, but she does not look well at all, and Kurogane is not a liar. He swallows. “Is there any pain?”

            She nods.

            “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. She touches his face, like she did when he was a child, but her hands so frighteningly chilly and rough. His mother always had soft hands. She also had two, perfectly warm eyes, and this woman has only one. Kurogane knows this. He cups her hand with his own, pain blooming in his chest.

            This is not his mother. She shakes her head, as if knowing his thoughts.

            “Which one are you?” Kurogane asks.

            Her eye flashes blue, for a moment, and her pupil stretches into a thin slit. Kurogane knows which memory this is immediately. He squeezes her hand, murmuring, “I command you to come with me.”

            And like that, the hand he held crumples into soft, black feathers, and Kurogane swallows the lump in his throat.

 

            Fai is with him in Tokyo, but for a while, he almost isn’t. Kurogane saves Fai’s life because Fai is so “nobly” self-sacrificing, and Fai wakes up with one eye too few and he stops using nicknames.

            “Kurogane,” he says. Kurogane feels the breath come out of him, wordless, hitched in pain. Fai offers a quiet, false smile, but he rarely offers anything else. He lives because Kurogane made it so, and that is the only reason.

            Saving Fai’s life was not Fai’s idea, but it was the only choice to Kurogane. He has lost many because he loved them. He will not see another die for that if he can stop it. He lost his mother because he loved her. He lost his father because he loved him. Love spells death for those Kurogane loves, so he accepts this, accepts his full name.

            After all, it will be better if Fai does not love him, too.

 

            Kurogane is crying, but he does not know why. All he feels is an awful, terrible sadness, and he finds himself kneeling, his forehead pressed to the red grass. There are no feathers in his hand. He does not remember the memory with his mother’s face, but he reasons that something must be making him upset. The void in his head—something that must have been significant, he realizes—feels as frozen as exposed skin in a blizzard.

            “This is very painful for you,” Yuuko sighs. “I am sorry, Kurogane.”

            “I don’t remember,” Kurogane croaks.

            “You might not, but your heart does.”

            “I need to find the memories,” Kurogane manages. He has never felt this tired, before. He thought that being dead meant he would never be tired again. He is wrong. His chest hurts. He stays crouched on the ground, shutting his eyes, and prays that all of this will be worth something—that it should work, that his wish will be granted.

            “Rest,” Yuuko commands, so Kurogane obeys.

 

            He meets a woman playing the piano. He knows what this memory is. He takes a seat beside her and listens, intently, and she flashes him a small smile. Music fills the desolate country, and Kurogane recalls a better time.

            “Will you take me along?” the woman asks, hitting the keys with expert, deft fingers. “I am waiting for the one who will take me along.”

            “Aren’t you always?” Kurogane murmurs. She winks. “What would you like me to do?”

            “I am waiting for the one who will take me along,” she repeats.

            But Kurogane wants this memory. He does not want to lose this one. He puzzles over this—should he send this memory off, too? Will the stranger still love Fai if he lacks this one? What memory would be enough for Kurogane, himself, to remember that he loves a lanky, blond wizard?

            Beside him, the woman hums a mournful tune. She has blond hair and tan skin, and Kurogane does not recall if the lounge singer did, in reality, but it does not matter. His memory is creative, at least. Kurogane shuts his eyes, listening.

            “I want you to stay,” Kurogane says.

            “You won’t take me along?” she asks.

            “I want to keep you for myself,” he replies. “What do you think of that?”

            She squints, continuing to play, and decides, “It is not the same, but I am happy.” She pauses, drumming the keys. “May I play a different song? I have played this one for years.”

            “Do what you like,” he says, and she grins. She steals a kiss on his cheek and the piano rings out a less somber, wistful tune—she plays an old folk song Kurogane loved as a boy, and of course she would. She is his memory. Kurogane pats the woman’s shoulder and leaves, off to find other memories.

            But this one? This one is his.

 

            Fai betrays too much of himself in a bar. He wants to be loved. He is waiting for someone to take him along. Fai runs from something and Kurogane runs to something. Kurogane wants to be loved, too, but he is afraid of that, because nothing good ever comes from his love. Fai listens to a bar singer, smiling wistfully, and sips a drink. Kurogane studies him.

            “You already found people who’ll take you along,” Kurogane says flatly, as it is the truth. Though not by direct volition, Syaoran, Sakura, Mokona, and Kurogane himself have taken Fai along. But this is not the answer Fai wants.

            “No,” Fai murmurs. “It is not the same.”

            “More,” Kurogane tells the barkeep, and his drink is refilled. Fai waves his clumsy white hand, echoing Kurogane’s demand, and his drink, too, is refilled. “You can’t just wait for somebody to ‘save’ you. The world doesn’t work that way.”

            “Your world, perhaps,” Fai replies a bit too sharply, but he smiles and confesses, “My world, too.”

            And if Kurogane is filled with sadness from that, he will never tell.

 

            Kurogane meets Syaoran’s clone, there, and the boy has one brown eye and one of vivid, magic blue. The clone does not smile upon seeing him, but hovers above the ground, surrounded by vibrant magic like a great wall. Kurogane swears under his breath—this will not be anything good. The clone cannot be a happy memory. “Hey, kid.”

            The clone tilts his head, saying nothing.

            “Which one are you?” he asks.

            “Leave me alone,” the clone says tonelessly.

            “Ah,” Kurogane sighs. “That kind, then.”

            “Go away,” the clone adds stiffly, as if reading from a script. “I have nothing else to talk about with you.”

            What should Kurogane do? Should the stranger see _this_ memory? He knows the words the clone says, and they were from a terrible time, one where Kurogane thought his love had no real answer because Fai outright refused it. Kurogane realizes, unfortunately, that most of his memories will be just like this one. He spent years trying to unravel Fai while Fai retracted, winding himself even tighter. But Kurogane loved him, still.

            “Want to go?” Kurogane asks, thinking his memories should have some sort of say in the matter at this point. They will know better than he does. The clone gives no answer, simply staring at him. “You will never have to deal with me again.”

            “Stay away,” the clone warns without an ounce of passion.

            “I command you to come with me.”

            The magic disappears, and the clone disappears. In his wake, thick black feathers drift to the ground, and Kurogane approaches them, hesitating to take them in his hands. He will forget this one, too, and the empty space in his head will expand. He waits until they fall to the ground.

            “I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and he gathers the feathers in his hand.

 

            Kurogane slices his palm open and waits for Fai to come to him. It does not take long. Fai can refuse to eat for as long as likes, but he cannot run from his new reality. Fai approaches with hatred in his eyes, grabbing Kurogane’s wrist like an unwanted offering, and drinks. When he finishes, he shoves Kurogane’s hand away and tries to leave. Kurogane stops him, grabbing the back of his shirt, and Fai’s claws sprout.

            “Don’t,” Fai warns.

            “We need to talk,” Kurogane insists.

            “You asked me to live,” Fai says bitterly, “and I am living. But it is not because I wanted that. Your selfish need to keep me alive will be answered however I see fit. As it is, I have nothing else to _talk_ about with you.”

            “It’s selfish to want to die,” Kurogane retorts, and Fai laughs. “I’m not the only one who wanted you to live.”

            “Indeed not,” Fai returns. “But you are the one who wanted it the most.”

            “I—”

            “You know what happens to people you love,” Fai hisses. “Do not make me one of them.”

            So Kurogane lets go, because Fai is right.

 

            Sakura appears like a doll, lying on a tree that shares her name. She rolls onto her belly, balancing on the branches, and cheers, “Why—hello, Kurogane!” (and Kurogane can’t help but smile to see her, as he _knows_ this is the memory that saved his heart). Kurogane waves at her, approaching the tree. Its roots dangle above the ground like curly fingers, and Sakura calls, “How nice it is of you to visit!”

            “I was in the area.” Sakura giggles at that. He adds, “It’s good to see you.”

            “I love to make you happy!” Sakura announces. “You always paid me a visit. It is odd that you pay me one like this, now.”

            “Well, death happens.”

            “Hmm—how true that is,” Sakura hums. “You have always been good to me, Kurogane. I like to bring the sunlight in for you. I don’t know if any of the others can do that as well as I can.”

            Kurogane nods. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

            “Silly!” Sakura laughs. “I did not do a very good job of it, then, did I?”

            “Guess not,” Kurogane says, and Sakura covers her mouth, laughing mischievously. Kurogane studies her, wondering if he should take her along. Her laughter stops abruptly, and the roots mash into the ground; the tree lands with such force that it knocks Kurogane off his feet. Sakura creeps away from him, crouching closer to the tree, hugging the trunk with wild eyes.

            “No,” she says. “Don’t do that.”

            “He’s going to need you,” Kurogane replies, but Sakura shakes her head.

            “You can’t take me away,” Sakura pleads hurriedly. “If you take me away, you’ll forget me, and I don’t want you to forget me.”

            “If I don’t, he won’t know what happened.”

            “If you do this, neither will you!” she cries. “Do not do this to me—to us. You kept the music. Keep me, too.”

            “It’s just another town,” Kurogane promises. “Nothing else will change. The country is the same.”

            “It isn’t the same!” Sakura shouts. “I won’t let you! I won’t! You can’t!”

            “I command—”

            “Command _yourself_!” Sakura interrupts, and Kurogane is surprised. He thought he had the method down. Sakura’s eyes are terrified green flames, and Kurogane shields his face when the tree spits thorns. It hurts. He’s dead, and it shouldn’t hurt, but he looks at his arm and sees blood. When he looks up, again, Sakura has tears in her eyes. “This is my home. You cannot take me from it.”

            “Don’t make me fight you,” Kurogane says, and Sakura shakes her head. “You won’t disappear.”

            “No,” Sakura replies shakily, “but you will.”

            “I’m right here. I lost some memories, but I didn’t go anywhere.”

            “Souls don’t work this way, Kurogane,” Sakura whispers. “You cannot pick and choose without consequences. The more you give to the stranger, the less you have of yourself. I am a pivotal memory. You cannot take me without losing something enormous.”

            Kurogane finds his feet again and wishes he had another arm. The thorns sting terribly. He clears his throat. “I have to do this.”

            “Then you’ll have to cut me down!” Sakura argues. “I won’t go!”

            The flowers burst off the tree, erupting into flame, and they rush through the air, rushing at Kurogane, and he ducks, but they burn him. He shouts at her. He tells her to stop. Sakura only weeps, now, because she knows what will happen, and she cries, “I don’t want you to lose me. I don’t want you to lose me. Please. Please stop.”

            He shields his head with his arm, letting it take the fiery abuse, and starts towards the trunk. Sakura’s speech speeds up, and she pleads, “Keep me. Please keep me. I’ll be very good, I promise—I’ll be very good.”

            Kurogane ducks and tumbles, coming towards the tree, listening as Sakura desperately repeats her painful refrain. The harder she cries, the more flowers fall, and they all burst into tiny, searing fireballs, launching towards the dead man. They land with an angry hiss and a bloom of hot pain, but he keeps forward. They stop when Kurogane’s hand lands on the bark. Sakura chokes on her breath.

            “Please stop,” she begs. “Please. Please.”

            “I love you,” Kurogane whispers. “You are my favorite memory. Do you know that? You are the best one I have.”

            “Then don’t do this,” Sakura sobs. “Please, please, please.”

            “You saved my life. You gave me another one,” Kurogane says, and his chest is tight, and the words are hard. “You gave me a better one. Even if I forget you, you have to know that I treasure you more than anything.”

            “I don’t want you to lose me,” Sakura mourns.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, and it might be to himself, and it might be to her, but the tree is gone from his fingers, and Sakura no longer cries, and a pile of feathers come lazily towards the burgundy earth. Kurogane shuts his eyes. He will forget something that solved a burning question in his mind. He will forget that question’s answer. But that stranger will see it, now, and he will understand, even if Kurogane can’t.

            When he opens his eyes, he does not remember why he feels so sad, but he cries, anyway.

 

            Kurogane cuts off an entire arm to save Fai’s life. Fai’s life is always causing some terrible harm to Kurogane’s, but Kurogane knows that he’s an idiot, which is why he keeps severing parts of himself to save the man. If saving Fai meant he had to cut off his own head, he would probably do that. Kurogane is a bit of a hopeless romantic, in a way, and Fai realizes that, eyes wide, as Kurogane’s missing arm drifts into a dying world. Kurogane pulls him through, and when he wakes in Nihon, Fai punches him in the face.

            “Payback,” Fai explains, and Kurogane rubs his face, grinning. “That was a very stupid thing to do. You know I’m a traitor—that I’ve been one all along—and yet, you go off doing stupid things to save me.”

            “Oh, right—from the resident genius,” Kurogane scoffs.

            But Fai uses his nickname once more, and if Fai kisses Kurogane on the forehead that night, Kurogane will never tell a soul. And if Kurogane kisses Fai on the mouth, annoyed that the irritating man would think _not_ to do this, he won’t say so. Kurogane thinks, for a passing moment, that the universe will recover if Fai can, and he is grateful when Fai kisses him back like a madman.

            He starts to say the words he means, but Fai cuts him off abruptly with a cautious smile.

            “Not now, Kurogane.”

            “When?”

            “Some day,” Fai decides, “but not now.”

 

            The sun hides behind thick, golden clouds, and never comes back out.           

            Something vital is gone, and he knows it, but he can’t figure out what it was. He wipes his tears after he lies on the grass for a while, staring at his fingers, trying to grasp something too lost to be recovered (and it will never find his fingers again). A year could pass while he lies there, as nothing changes in the country—the weather never warms (or cools), and the sun never moves in the sky; he has no concept of time.

            “I know it hurts,” Yuuko says sadly, “but you must continue.”

            “What did I forget?” he asks.

            “I cannot tell you that.”

            Years may pass—he’ll never know—but he finally finds his feet again and starts off in a meaningless direction. When every turn shows identical scenery, he cannot realistically know where he really is. All is an endless sea of crimson, grey, and gold. He wishes for rain, but does not know why.

            He encounters many memories that he realizes are not vital—he can keep them. He meets Watanuki and recalls eating a massive meal with the children and Fai (the food is always too sweet if Fai makes it, but Kurogane “suffers” through it, never willing to admit he likes sweet things). When all is done, they learn something in the ingredients has spoiled. Mokona vomits strange rubbish she has kept in her belly (and none of it is food, but they find random coins, plastic jewelry, and pairs of mismatched socks in the aftermath). Sakura vomits vomit, and Fai does the same. Syaoran and Kurogane are the only ones with tough enough stomachs and end up doing a great deal of cleaning together, and Kurogane lectures Fai, but Fai complains, “I cannot read the labels on our food—how can I know what has spoiled?”—and it is a very good point, Kurogane realizes, but he lectures on because he feels he must.

            Kurogane keeps that memory. Recalling Syaoran’s confused expression when Mokona vomited coins violently at his head? It makes Kurogane laugh, and he needs that, now, because his heart is heavy. He pats Watanuki on the back and takes him to the woman on the piano. Watanuki smiles and sits on the grass, listening to her. How Kurogane finds the woman is mystifying, but she seems to show up in any direction he chooses, so long as he wants to find her.

            He meets his father, and the memory is a foolish one—a drawing of himself as a huge, mean dog that Fai drew, and he had rushed after the man, furious that he should be thought of as a dog. Fai laughs in that memory, running with his wobbly arms in the air, and Kurogane never catches him. He keeps that memory, too.

            Kurogane never remembers if he does catch him, but in that memory, he is so angry that he could kiss Fai, and that sort of thought has no logic, so he ignored it at the time, in the memory, but the thought never stops recurring in others. He wants to kiss Fai in many countries, but he never does, and Fai never kisses him, either. They dance around one another. Even in death, Fai continues to dance.

            “Move forward,” Yuuko commands, and so he does.

 

            “Witch,” Kurogane calls, “has the guy seen it yet?”

            “Impatient man,” Yuuko sighs. He feels a breeze from it. “They come in dreams, for him. He does not know what to make of it, yet.”

            Kurogane stops walking. The witch senses his train of thought.

            “He will,” she adds. “I am rarely wrong.”

            “ _Rarely_?” he snaps. “You’re _rarely_ wrong? Holy shit. Did you really make me do _all of this_ when it might not even _work_?”

            Kurogane thinks his head might fly off and that he wants to grab Yuuko just to shake her. If this does not work, he will have lost memories for nothing at all. His wish might not be granted. In a second, his terror morphs to righteous fury, and he shouts, “The hell is _wrong_ with you?!”

            “Well,” Yuuko huffs, “if you had only _told_ Fai the truth in the first place, you would not be in this mess. You are the only one to blame.”

            “That’s wrong and you _know_ it!”

            “I am rarely wrong,” she repeats.

            “Well, you’re _pretty damn wrong_ right now!” Kurogane screams. Yuuko is very quiet, then, and the country is quiet, and Kurogane is a dead man too far from home. Home is where a yellow-haired, evasive wizard is. Home is where the children are. This is not where he meant to be, and he might never have them back. He knows he has already lost important pieces of these people. Though he cannot say _how_ , he _feels_ it.

            “I’m sorry, Kurogane,” Yuuko says at last.

            “Shut up.”

            So she is silent, again, and Kurogane drops to his knees, weary and losing hope, while a stranger takes his heart away. Kurogane made it so. Kurogane should have told Fai, but he didn’t, and he pays for the price. Fai is always ruining some part of his life, so it makes sense that Fai should ruin the greater part of his death, too. Kurogane lets himself lie on the grass, covering his face, and he prays for rain.

            The rain does not come.

 

            “Did Fai ever love me?” Kurogane asks, because Yuuko always knows things she should not. Yuuko does not answer him for some time, but he hears something—a great, strong breath. He whirls around. This time, he sees Fai, himself, and he stands for a moment, dumbfounded. Even if the man is only a memory, Kurogane is startled to see him. Fai waves. He has two, yellow eyes, and a vaguely familiar robe—something Kurogane might have worn in Nihon. But the patterns are wrong. He does not recognize the patterns, though the style is similar.

            “A room for the night,” Fai begins. “You wouldn’t throw strangers to the street, would you?”

            Kurogane realizes, suddenly, that he does not know what this memory is. The words are wrong; Fai has never said a thing like that. This cannot be his memory at all. He takes a step back, and if he had a sword, he would reach for it. Fai only blinks curiously at that. “Who are you?”

            “A fool,” Fai sighs.

            “He is not yours,” Yuuko warns from above—and Fai looks up, as if startled to have additional (if invisible) company. “This memory belongs to another.”

            The stranger. The man who will bring some part of Kurogane back, who can stay by Fai, even if Kurogane cannot. His memories are here, now, and Fai is one of them. Kurogane’s eyes widen, and Fai looks around, still, searching for the witch’s voice. He will never find it, of course.

            “What you did has confused your soul’s memories; they are wandering, now, because you broke a crucial border,” Yuuko continues. “The soul has natural borders that keep memories in the right places, but you have broken them. When you implant memories into another—even if the soul is the same—there are repercussions. I have held them off as long as I could, but I cannot do so any longer; the price would be too much. These are memories of another ‘you’. You will encounter them as well as your own, now.”

            When Kurogane looks at Fai, the man shuffles nervously, averting his gaze.

            “He met you,” Kurogane whispers.

            “I must be lost,” Fai returns uneasily. “You are not my master.”

            Fai vanishes immediately, and Kurogane watches that vacant space, wiping his forehead. He was glad to see him, even for a moment, but he knows that this Fai does not belong with him, just as the Fai he loves does not, either. He clears his throat.

            “Oi. Witch.”

            “I do have a name, you realize,” Yuuko sighs. “What is it?”

            “He met him,” Kurogane says. “Is it going well?”

            “As well as I thought it might. You just met the memory, after all.”

            “So?”

            “He thinks Fai is a snake,” Yuuko says, chuckling, “but something holds his attention, otherwise. The dreams he has—your memories—they only add to it. He wants to know who Fai is, though he already has a great sense of it.”

            “Does he…?”

            “Not yet,” Yuuko replies gently, “but he will.”

            Kurogane nods. There is hope, yet.

 

            He sits with the piano-playing woman again, for she is a nice memory, and she plays songs Kurogane knows (as she doesn’t know any songs, herself). He watches her fingers dance along the keys. She sings only the words Kurogane remembers, and hums something indecipherable when she reaches points in songs where Kurogane himself does not know the words. She hums awkwardly, looking embarrassed, which makes him laugh. She finishes a song, and he nods at her.

            “Nice. You play well.”

            “If you remembered more lyrics, I’d be better,” the woman admits, smiling sheepishly. “I am happy you visit. I am often lonely.”

            “Yeah,” Kurogane replies, frowning. “He was, too. It makes sense.”

            “But you kept me. That was good of you.”

            “I had to keep you,” he says. She looks away, fanning her long fingers over the keys, and they land with a musical shout. He closes his eyes. “I like that song. That idiot liked it, too.”

            “Yes! Yes, I think he did,” she decides. “I wish you remembered all the words. I wonder what they are. All I can do is play what you know, after all.”

            “It’s still nice.”

            “Did you love him?” she asks. He frowns. “I’m sorry—it’s just that I feel such a longing, like there’s someone I care for who doesn’t care about me.”

            “Yeah.” Kurogane taps a key. “I did.”

            “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Did you ever tell him?”

            Kurogane shakes his head.

            “Do you think he loved you?”

            “Maybe. Don’t know,” Kurogane admits. “I never even kissed him. Even if he loved me, he never knew I loved him, so it doesn’t matter. I don’t think he did, though. I don’t think so.”

            “That’s very sad,” the woman says after a few moments. “Is that why you feel so lonely, now?”

            He swallows. “How about a different song?”

            She nods, not pressing him further, and plays a tune that Tomoyo always liked to hum. He relishes in a fragile, tenuous peace, and if he feels lonely, he will not admit it so soon. The woman fills the country with her erratic playing, repeating fragments of songs he knows, and he wonders if this is enough, if he should give her away.

            But he sees her blond hair, like Fai’s phantom, and decides against it.

 

            He meets himself, this time, which is odd in principle but odder in reality. His double is headless—or not so much, but the double holds Kurogane’s head in his lap while his neck sits naked, exposing bone and tissue. Kurogane immediately knows which memory this is, even if he doesn’t recall what happened to him. This is his murder. The head in his double’s lap glowers with red eyes.

            “Well,” Kurogane says, “that doesn’t look too good.”

            “It’s not,” the head replies, and the headless arms move the severed head, mimicking how he might have shook his head in life. “You wanted to know how you died.”

            “Still do,” Kurogane confirms.

            “You’re looking at the answer,” the head says.

            “Dammit,” Kurogane breathes. The face does not smile. “Who did it?”

            “You know already.” The head rolls its eyes. “Big, dumb, white guy. Ring any bells?”

            Kurogane is frozen. This cannot be the truth. Fai could not have killed him. But Fai did, and the evidence is right there, sitting cross-legged, hovering above a crimson earth. Fai _killed_ him.

            “No,” Kurogane says, because he cannot accept this. “He—”

            “Oh, come on,” the head complains. “You can’t be this much of an idiot. Do you want to know how it happened or _not_?”

            Kurogane wants Yuuko to tell him what to do, now, because he feels like this is a dangerous memory—one so dangerous that even _he_ does not recall it, yet knows, instinctively, that it is his. The face glares, and its fingers drum impatiently on its black hair.

            But he should know this. “Show me.”

            The arms toss the head, and Kurogane catches it. What he sees is terrible—Fai swipes out a hand, sending a huge blade of white-blue magic all around him. No. That isn’t it. He meant to do some harm to Kurogane in particular; Kurogane _sees_ that from the flash of rage in the wizard’s face. Fai sends the blade right into Kurogane’s neck, chopping off his head, and the blond panics, giving the same treatment to a city of strangers, but Fai never screams or cries. In the end, he scoops Kurogane into his arms, gathering his head, and creates a magic circle around them.

            “I’m sorry,” Fai whispers. “Kurogane—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…”

            Kurogane tosses the head back to his double, unwilling to see the rest of it, and the head curses when the body scrambles about blindly, unable to find him. The head shouts, “You damn _idiot—_ over here! _Over here!_ ”

            Kurogane steps back. The body finds its head and dusts the thing off. The face scowls, but stops for a moment, looking at Kurogane. “Aren’t you supposed to send me off?”

            “Maybe,” Kurogane says, “but I won’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “He doesn’t get to see that,” Kurogane answers firmly. The stranger should know, perhaps, but Kurogane cannot let this one leave. He is trying so hard to build up a vision of a life worth spending with Fai for the stranger, and this memory would ruin that, would drive the stranger away from Fai. Even if the stranger should know the wizard is a dangerous man, Kurogane cannot allow this memory to wander. “It isn’t his.”

            “Oh, so you’re going to go off and leave me here with _this_ thing?” the head snarls, looking at the body, and Kurogane shakes his head.

            “No. There are other memories. You can see them. One plays music.”

            The head blinks.

            “Oh,” it says after a few moments. It settles down. “Sounds nice. Thanks.”

            Kurogane sends his double off with the piano-woman, Watanuki, his father, the real Syaoran, Mokona, his childhood crush, and a pack of particularly talkative dogs (Kurogane reasons that his memory had assigned random symbols to these things, though he still doesn’t know what to make of the dogs). He turns away from them and touches his own throat. The flesh is flat; there is no evidence of his murder, aside from an obviously headless double.

            Fai killed him, but why?

 

            The next time he sees Fai—a memory—he is guarded. Kurogane says nothing to the man. Fai wears strange clothes again and fumbles with golden coins in his palm, and when he looks at Kurogane, his eyes are bleary, wet. Sorrow. Love? Regret? He does not know, but the wizard cries like a lost child, looking at Kurogane as if the dead man can ground him. Kurogane hurts because he cannot do that, but he keeps his mouth shut.

            “I’m frightened,” Fai says, and his voice is just a whisper, threatening to vanish, “and you are something safe and good—the only thing.”

            Not his memory. This is not meant for him. These words were not spoken to him, but a stranger. Fai cries, but Fai does not cry to him, and he never has. So he should not see it. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, the memory is gone. He says, “Doesn’t look like it’s going well.”

            Yuuko makes a noncommittal sound.

            “He killed me,” Kurogane tells the witch, though she must already know that. “Fai killed me. Do you know why?”

            “You were too close to him,” Yuuko replies, and Kurogane does not like that answer. He cannot help but draw himself as close as possible to the man. “He retaliated. He did not meant to kill you, but he wanted to scare you into some distance. We both see how well that worked.”

            “Hmmph.” (It has not worked at all.)

            “It was accidental, as you’ve seen,” Yuuko continues. “Would you like to know what he is trying to do, out there?”

            Kurogane looks up at the grey sky, waiting.

            “He wants to exchange his life for yours. It will never work, obviously, but I saw Watanuki in a dream and he told me that much,” Yuuko sighs. “You men are hopeless.”

            “Does he love me?”

            “Yes.”

            “Does he love me?”

            Kurogane never remembers that he asks the question multiple times—as far as he recalls, he asks once, and the witch only answers with a painful sigh. Fai must not love him, even if he is willing to die to bring Kurogane back. Fai is always willing to die, so that must not mean much in itself.

            Despite that—despite the unrequited nature of it—Kurogane realizes he does not care. If his love has no answer? So be it. He will protect Fai in any way he can, and this is the only way he knows.

            Kurogane walks on.

 

            He meets Souma. She is exactly as he recalls her at their last meeting—dressed impractically (and if he told her that in life, she never listened) and tall, dark-skinned, with an impatient look on her face. But she smiles at him, oddly enough, and he smiles, too. An old friend. If she is only a memory, that is fine: he is glad to see her.

            “Souma,” he greets her. She nods. “Good to see you.”

            “You really think I’m dressed impractically?” she wonders.

            “Well, yeah.”

            “Then you’re to blame,” Souma chuckles. “You’re the one who remembers me this way. Besides, I can do anything I want in these clothes.”

            As a demonstration, Souma flips in mid-air, but Kurogane thinks it is not a very good proof at all. She is floating, after all, and can flip all she likes without consequence. Souma frowns at him, knowing what he thinks. All his memories know that. He cannot have secrets, here.

            “Indeed not!” Souma replies. “We _are_ your secrets, after all. We do not exist without you. You are the great heart of us all, and we hear every beat.”

            Kurogane thinks that Souma was never that poetic. She rolls her eyes.

            “You never thought _you_ were poetic,” she scolds him. “Or you never imagined you could be. But you are. For all you try, you’re very gentle and soppy. It’s embarrassing to meet the…” Souma frowns. “Never mind.”

            “Meet the what?”

            “You don’t know her, anymore,” Souma says, and she shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I guess you’re running out of soppy ones, anyway.”

            There is an absence between them neither can specifically name. Kurogane gives up because she will not tell him; if he doesn’t have that memory any longer, he can’t reasonably know what he’s missing, after all. Souma smiles tiredly.

            “Which one are you, then?” he asks.

            “Kid goes out blindfolded. You get in trouble,” Souma replies. “You know the one.”

            He does.

            “You’ll send me off, won’t you?”

            “Probably.”

            “Yeah,” Souma murmurs, nodding. She extends a hand to him, but Kurogane hesitates to take it. He looks up at her, and she raises an eyebrow. “What?”

            “You’re unhappy.”

            “I’m perfectly fine,” she returns, and he grabs her hand. His old companion pops into a flurry of feathers, and Kurogane watches them fall, knowing this is just another thing he will lose. He shakes his head. Life is hard, and death is harder.

            “Nothing is fine,” he says, but no one responds.

            He picks up the feathers, and another memory escapes him.

 

            Kurogane blindfolds Syaoran because he is more effective, blind, than he is with his eyesight. Fai pretends not to be worried, but Fai is _angry_ for it, and when Syaoran finally comes back, Fai rushes to the boy like a worried father. He pulls the boy close to his chest and glares, pointedly, at Kurogane. That night, he scolds, “You cannot do that to him again.”

            “He’s a good kid. He’s capable.”

            “You don’t know that,” Fai snaps. “He is not _you_. He does not _fight_ like you. He is just a boy. Do not be reckless with him—or Sakura. If either child finds trouble because of your terrible plans, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

            “He’s fine. They’re both fine.” Kurogane sighs. “ _You_ are not fine, on the other hand.”

            “How am I not fine?” Fai asks, plastering on a plastic smile. “Nothing is wrong with me. I’m perfectly fine.”

            Kurogane gestures towards the book in Fai’s hand, which is upside-down as well as written in a language neither man understands. He raises a brow. Fai shuts the book, and with a gentle smile, warns, “Do not tread where you won’t like the scenery, Kurogane.”

            But Kurogane is not a good listener.

 

            A different Tomoyo appears (though he does not know she is the second Tomoyo he’s met, now) and holds coins in her white hands, looking critically at him. Kurogane approaches. Her clothing is wrong, but the stranger has a Tomoyo of his own. This bodes well; if he is so similar to the stranger, this Tomoyo must be a decent memory. But she looks at him with hard eyes. The stranger’s memories seem unusually sad; he wishes he could meet a pleasant one.

            “Priestess,” he says. She raises her chin, defiant, somehow. “You aren’t my memory. You have to go.”

            “You have tried taking him from me,” the priestess says. Kurogane halts—no. She isn’t his memory. She isn’t a memory at all. She throws the coins to the ground. He realizes she is not hovering—not like the others. Real. She is real. Her eyes flash. “I will not let you do this.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You made a wish out of love.” She points at him. “Somehow, you did not think that it might be unwelcomed. I do not welcome what you do. You are not allowed to take him from me. Stop.”

            “Why?”

            She narrows her eyes, and something flashes in her fingers—a bright, yellow light. He sees floating, glowing words sprawl from her hands, curling in a wide spiral around her body. Magic. Of course.

            “I have to,” he says.

            “Then you will fight me,” she says.

            “Go ahead,” Kurogane returns blandly. “I’ve already died.”

            The floating characters shudder and explode. He dodges, but not before a word crashes into his chest. He clutches at it, surprised, and when he draws his hand away, he sees blood. Tomoyo’s eyes burn yellow and hot, and she draws more characters in the air. He has already died. He cannot die again.

            “It’s useless,” he tells her. “You can’t stop me.”

            “You bring death to my country,” Tomoyo snaps, “so I must try.”

            Kurogane shouts, “ _Witch!_ ”, but the words shoot out once more. He shields his face and walks, hunched over, struggling to approach the priestess. Tomoyo’s voice is calm, but she speaks with hatred, with fear, and he does not know why.

            “You are a selfish man,” she accuses. “My Kurogane is not so selfish. You changed him. You are making him something else—someone else. _You._ ”

            The words burn him—her floating words, and the ones she speaks—and his blood seeps through his clothing, but he continues towards her. Tomoyo’s eyes widen, and a wall of yellow, hot magic jolts out of the earth, separating them before Kurogane can touch her. She holds one hand before her, maintaining the wall. He tries to touch it, but it scalds his hand. Still, he stands there, as close as he can.

            “Why did you have to choose him?” she demands. “There are others with the same soul. You should have chosen another.”

            “He was the right one. Same age. Same looks. Same history.”

            “Pick another.”

            “Too late for that.”

            “You chose the wrong man,” Tomoyo says, and the wall transforms, curving gracefully, wrapping around her sides. He squints, trying to see through it, but all he can see is yellow.

            “It has already started,” Kurogane says. “I can’t stop this.”

            “He was _happy_ ,” Tomoyo argues. “We were so happy.”

            Kurogane has never considered himself a selfish man, but the young woman thinks otherwise. He realizes, then, that his wish might have destroyed a life. But he was never thinking of that; he was thinking of how to save another life—Fai’s—and this priestess regards him with justified anger, sadness, fear—he is taking a man she finds precious. He knew there were costs to the wish—of course—but he was not thinking of the stranger. He only thought of a wizard.

            He might have chosen wrongly. It might be wrong to value one life over another, but he does. He cannot let Fai go, even if Fai sent him here with his own hands.

            “I saved him,” Tomoyo continues. “I took him from a brutal life. I taught him that the world could be good. I worked hard to give him something stable, something safe. Do you understand me? Do you understand?”

            He does. He did the same for Fai. He tried, for as long as he knew the man, to break down those hideous barriers, the ones that kept Fai’s false smile on display despite a great deal of pain. He sacrificed his own sanity for Fai. He sacrificed _his own memories_ for Fai. He understands the priestess.

            “Yes.”

            “Priestess,” Yuuko says from the sky—and if Tomoyo flinches, Kurogane cannot see it, “you must leave. Wake. All will be well; I have seen it, myself. Go home.”

            The magical wall breaks abruptly, and Kurogane sees the priestess for the last time in his death. She stares at him, dry-eyed yet mourning, and gives him her hand. It is a strange reflex, but he kisses the back of it; she takes her hand back, assessing him, and nods.

            “I do not forgive you,” she says, “but I forgive him. Goodbye.”

            She vanishes. No feathers. Kurogane has nothing to forget, this time, but he feels the bitter pangs of regret in his chest. When he looks at himself, all of the blood is gone; he is unmarred. Tomoyo leaves no memory of her visit for him, but he cannot stop thinking of her words. He must be selfish, after all.

            “Witch,” Kurogane mutters, “what was that?”

            “She left her body in a dream,” Yuuko sighs. “She may try to return, but all dreams must end. You know that well enough.”

            Kurogane does not want to ask it, but he must: “Have I done the wrong thing?”

            “You did the only thing you found acceptable,” Yuuko replies, which is not much of an answer at all. Kurogane glares at the sky. “But this must end, too.”

            “I will end it.”

            “I only wish,” Yuuko confesses, “we had more time.”

 

            Yuuko appears, and he knows exactly which memory this is. The witch has a half-lidded, unnerving stare, as she always has. She wears an elaborate headdress and a long, ebony dress; when she raises a hand in greeting, a billowing sleeve falls elegantly. For a moment, he thinks she is real, but he notices her floating feet. She smiles without showing any teeth.

            “Witch,” he says.

            “Kurogane, wait,” Yuuko’s voice calls from the grey skies. “If you take this one, you will lose too much.”

            He has thought of this memory. He has wondered if he should give it away. If he does, he will forget this moment, too; he will forget the first time he ever saw Fai and heard his name (though it was the wrong one, in the end, but he cannot recall what the real one is, now). He will forget Syaoran’s desperate expression, the hurt in his face. The white, deathly sleep of a princess—a double, too, and they both were, but Kurogane loved them. If the stranger does not see this time, Kurogane risks that his wish will be useless, and he cannot risk that.

            If he fails, Fai is certain to fall, too. If he fails, Fai will wander worlds without end, praying for someone to take his life. He knows the sort of man Fai is. Fai is reckless, dangerous; even if he does not love Kurogane, he will readily tear the world apart for his own death. Kurogane must prevent that. So he disobeys the witch.

            “He needs to know this,” Kurogane insists. “He needs to remember how we met—the kids and Fai. He needs to see how they…” Kurogane can’t find the words. “…I’m a different man because of them. He needs to see that. If he doesn’t, he won’t realize how much they matter.”

            “They do,” Yuuko confirms solemnly. The witch stands with one arm frozen in greeting, mouth shut, as the true Yuuko speaks. “But if you do this, Kurogane, you will lose too much.”

            Kurogane takes one step forward.

            “Stop immediately,” Yuuko orders. “Do not take her.”

            “I have to end this,” Kurogane replies. He has traveled enough. He has met memories and banished them; he has taken a select few for himself, hoping that they are enough for him to recall that there was a man he loved, and that man was difficult and bad, but only wanted someone to rescue him.

            The witch’s double smiles at him, beckoning him silently towards her. She wants him to give her away. She wants him to send him off. The memories should have a say; this one wants to leave.

            “No,” Yuuko says, raising her voice. “Stop this.”

            Kurogane takes another step forward.

            “Do not come any closer to her,” Yuuko warns. “If you do this, you lose something vital, and you will no longer be yourself.”

            He is not himself, anymore. He is confused, lonely, burdened, and he is ready for the end of this journey. He is not foolish enough to risk that this journey could be meaningless, in the end, so he walks forward, ignoring the witch, while her double nods approvingly.

            “Kurogane!” Yuuko screams.

            He takes the double’s hand, and she smiles, exploding into a cloud of dark feathers. Kurogane catches them quickly, as he knows this is what he _must do_ , even if it means some part of him can never return. When he looks around him once more, the feathers are gone, and a strange voice speaks from the clouds.

            “What have you done?” A woman. She sounds upset. Kurogane whirls about, looking for her. “Kurogane!”

            “Who is that? Where are you?” Kurogane shouts. “Hey! Where are you?”

            The voice sobs.

 

            Kurogane meets Fai for the first time in a dreary rain, stolen from Nihon, banished until he “learns the real meaning of strength”. Kurogane does not like when someone questions his definitions of very basic things. Strength is a measure of physical power. He knows that. Thus he knows that he is very strong, too, but Tomoyo will hear nothing of that.

            Fai stands in the rain, comfortably dry, and smiles like a snake. Two children appear—a desperate, brave boy and a sleeping girl—and Kurogane is whisked away from his home and world without any say in the matter. He sacrifices his treasured sword because a witch asks for it, but he is furious. He will admit, later, that he was terrified, but he would never show these strangers that. Kurogane is not good with admitting weakness and never will be.

            Fai asks to run for all time from his home. Kurogane asks to run straight to his home. Syaoran asks to save Sakura’s life. Sakura asks nothing, and she never does, and Kurogane does not realize that these are the very people he will, someday, sacrifice everything for, because he will love them.

            But he doesn’t know it, then, so he shouts and scowls and acts like a child because that is all he knows how to do.

 

            He wanders a strange land, and a woman without a body speaks to him often, as if she knows him, but she is unfamiliar. It unsettles him. Everywhere he goes, he’s surrounded by faces he can’t recognize, names that he thinks he _should know_ but can never say. He meets memories (though they often seem like dreams) that he knows he must give to someone, but he can’t recall why. He only knows he must select the important ones; that is what the woman from above commands, and she seems to know more than he does, so he obeys.

            He meets a girl with copper hair. She carries a memory in her hands of—it was important, but as soon as he touches the feathers, she is gone, and the memory is gone, too, and he does not remember if he ever met her or if she was something he imagined. He meets others, too—hundreds of others, and he must stand there, dumbly, trying to figure out if the memory is important or not. At times, the sky-woman advises him, and he takes her advice. More often than not, however, she weeps, and she never tells him why if he asks.

            He stops asking. He hates how she cries.

            Kurogane is plagued by thoughts of faces of people he does not know: a boy, a girl, a witch, and a wizard. He meets strangers in his memories—or dreams?—and they speak as if they love him. He does not know what it means. A woman cries in the sky. A headless man that has his face looks somewhat disapproving, but Kurogane never knows why. The woman playing the piano tries to make him happy, but he only finds himself lonelier and lonelier, angry with confusion. Nothing makes sense. He knows faces without names, without context, save for scattered drabbles of memories that give him nothing worthwhile.

            “Hey,” he says. “The guy with blond hair—what’s his name?”

            “It’s Fai,” his headless double snaps.

            “Hmmph. Strange name,” Kurogane decides. He blinks. “Hey. The guy with blond hair—what’s his name?”

            “This shit gets old fast,” the headless man complains, and Kurogane looks at the piano-woman, wondering why no one can ever answer him. She gives him a sad smile, shrugging.

            “I don’t know the name, myself,” she murmurs. “He never says it.”

            A strange young man with glasses—the memory of the yellow-haired man vomiting, a girl vomiting, a toy-animal vomiting _trinkets_ —pats Kurogane on the back with a sympathetic expression.

            All is different, now. The ground used to be burgundy. Now, the grass is red as bright blood. The sky was grey, but it has gone black. The clouds were golden, and they’re absent, now. The sun is gone. A white moon hangs in its place. Kurogane asks the piano-woman to play louder, as the woman in the sky cries too loudly and it irritates him.

            “I’m trying,” the piano-woman promises, but she never plays loudly enough.

 

            He meets the final memory. It is his mother (again, though he doesn’t recall that), and she looks well, happy, healthy. He runs to her, glad to see a familiar face. She waves, dressed in warm, white robes. There is no blood. This was not how she was when he last saw her. Here, she is glowing, lively—but calm. She always was so calm. He reaches towards her.

            “You will not stay long, will you?” she asks, and she takes his hand in hers. She feels cold, but it does not frighten him. He knows her words are familiar, that she is a comforting memory, but he is reluctant to see her go so soon. For all he tries, he is still his mother’s son, and in this frightening country, her presence is a relief.

            “I don’t know,” he confesses. “I don’t know anything. I died, and I’m here, and I have to get memories for someone, but I don’t know why. Do you know what’s happening?”

            She touches his face with her free hand.

            “Mother,” he insists. “Do you know?”

            “I am not your mother,” she whispers, and Kurogane knows that is the truth, so he nods. “I only know what you do.”

            “I know,” he says. “I hoped I was wrong.”

            They remain like that for a bit, but she finally draws her tender hand away from his cheek and removes her grip from Kurogane’s fingers. She clears her throat, murmuring, “Youou. You found it.”

            “What did I find?” She knows his name; she is the only memory to know it. He can only recall fragments of this memory, but he recognizes it. If she knows his name, she can only be one of a select few.

            “I’m the last you need,” she promises. “After this, you need not take anything else. Your journey will end. You will not remember me, anymore, but that is acceptable. You walk around with pain in your heart, and we all feel it. You are confused and frightened. We do not wish that for you.”

            Kurogane feels like the words he wants to say are too thick in his mouth. He cannot look away from her, cannot speak, but he nods.

            “You are lonely without them—without the memories you gave the stranger,” his mother says softly. “Walk lonely no longer.”

            “I’m tired,” he confesses. “I’m lonely. I want to go home.”

            “You can go home, Youou.” She smiles at him. “We will find our place in our new home. Do not worry for us. You won’t, of course, because you won’t remember this, but some part of you will be worried. That is fine. We will be good for our new master.”

            He wants to thank her, but she drops into his hand—a single feather—and he is puzzled when he says, “Thank you”, to an empty space. But he feels grateful, somehow, as if he has won a difficult argument.

            “Kurogane,” the crying woman in the sky calls, and he follows.

 

            He returns home, accidentally, with his entire “family”—Fai, Syaoran, Sakura, and Mokona. It is truly home, now, and is not simply a similar Nihon. Tomoyo saves his life, praying above him, and he wakes in her presence. When he opens his eyes, Tomoyo greets him. She smiles upon seeing him, a gentle mother, and says, “You are home, now. Your wish is granted.”

            He looks at her. She is familiar, but a stranger, all the same. Time is a weapon in that way.

            “You will not stay long, will you?” she asks, but she knows the answer.

            “I can’t stay,” he replies. “The children need me.”

            “I need you, too,” Tomoyo confesses, sad yet kind, “but I know. I foresaw it, that they should change you.”

            He nods at that. Her pain is palpable, and he wishes he could not see it. For all he tries to be tough and ruthless, the truth is that Kurogane is genuinely softhearted. He never wants to be the cause of pain. He wants to be a good man. Tomoyo touches his face, somber yet smiling.

            “You found your heart, Youou,” she whispers. “That is all I ever wanted for you, and you found it.”

 

            The land is gone. Everything is black. His memories—his companions—are gone, now, too. Kurogane finds himself before a woman with long black hair, cat-like eyes, and a pipe in her fingers. She sits in a strange chair. She is the only thing in this black place, and when she sees him, she does not smile. He feels uncertain of himself. Her eyes catalogue him for something, but he does not know for what, so he glares.

            “Hello, Kurogane,” the woman says, exhaling vibrant smoke. “I have granted your wish, now.”

            “I had a wish?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh.” He squints at her. He doesn’t know if he should trust her, but she has the voice he heard back in that strange country—the weeping voice. Here, she does not weep. (He is glad, for the sound became infuriating.) “What was it?”

            The woman raises an eyebrow, sucking on her pipe.

            “Who are you?” he asks.

            “If you weren’t a fool,” the woman mutters, “you would know the answer to that, and your other question.”

            “Great talking with you, then,” Kurogane says dryly. She has a mean smile at that, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like her. But she ‘granted his wish’, somehow, so he waits for her to say something. She doesn’t. “You were in the sky, back there—wherever I was.”

            She nods.

            “You have to know something, then,” Kurogane adds. “So—there’s a guy I remember. Tall. Blond. Threw up, looked sad in a bar, and killed me. Might be out of order—don’t know. Who is he?”

            If she says his name, he cannot hear it.

            “Who is he?” Kurogane repeats. She groans, rubbing her forehead. “No one can tell me. I just want to know if he was real, or a dream.”

            The witch looks at him as if he is a particularly trying child.

            “Enough,” she sighs.

            “You don’t know?” Kurogane asks.

            “Your wish is granted, Kurogane,” the woman says sharply, and her eyes are cold. “You can leave this place. Join your parents. I received your payment. There are no other memories needed.”

            “My payment?” he asks. “What are you on about?”

            The woman snaps her fingers, and strange, black feathers rain about her in a rushing wall. Kurogane shouts at her, but she disappears behind the feathers, fading into the blackness of the strange, dark place he finds himself in. Kurogane rushes towards where she was, but nothing is there, now. Nothing at all.

            “ _Hey!_ ” Kurogane screams. Nothing answers. No one answers. “Come back! _Hey!_ ”

            He is afraid. He is alone. He wants the piano-woman and his headless double and the boy with glasses and the talkative dogs. He wants the sad yet sweet memory of a yellow-haired man in a bar, refreshing his drink, wishing to go somewhere. He wants the memory of strangers that love him falling hilariously sick—one of them throws up cheap trinkets and the other two throw up, regrettably, standard vomit, but he takes care of them and they really do love him, and they’re his family, though he doesn’t know a single name. He wants the memory of a blond wizard whistling as he walks on a narrow bridge, brown leaves catching in that hair, where Kurogane picks a leaf out and tosses it into the water. He wants the memory of strange children falling asleep while he stays up late to protect them and that blond wizard fights with him, trying to force him to go to bed (but Kurogane wins). He wants the memory of his own murder by that strange, beautiful man with the yellow hair.

            He just wants _something._ He wants something, anything, but this world is black and cold and frightening, and no faces greet him. The memories are nowhere to be seen, and the angry woman is gone, and Kurogane has no place. He wants a place. He is lost, lost, lost. He sinks to his knees and shuts his eyes, praying this will disappear, that he will open his eyes to a country that makes sense.

            Tap, tap, tap. Wet. He opens his eyes, and the darkness is gone.

            “Youou!” someone calls.

            A pink blossom floats into his hand like a gift, and he inspects it—real. The grass beneath him is green and cool. Everything is good, as it should be. He smells warm food, flowers, and—he looks up, feeling slightly delirious, because the sun has a yellow face, the sky is blue, the clouds are white, and he hears his mother’s voice calling his name, his father’s voice encouraging him to join them at the table, and—and something wet on his face, something wet. Kurogane tilts his head back and lets it fall.

            Something dreadful is over. He cannot recall what it was, but his relief is incredible. He shuts his eyes, and it rains.

            He passes on.

 

            In a different Nihon, in a different world, a man with yellow-hair leaves the first of many golden coins.

 

Copyright © 2016 by k_n


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